


flirting over dead bodies (when else am i going to do it?)

by ephemerides



Category: Agent Carter (TV)
Genre: F/F, also these tags dont really apply anymore but whatever, in which dottie is a massive dork with a crush, sTARTED OUT WITH A KISS HOW DID IT END UP LIKE THIS IT WAS ONLY A KISS IT WAS ONLY A, you can't just leave corpses at someone's doorstep that's not how you flirt you idiot oh my god
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-02
Updated: 2017-01-31
Packaged: 2018-03-20 21:25:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3665619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ephemerides/pseuds/ephemerides
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>inspired by a tumblr prompt post: "You need to stop leaving dead bodies in my kitchen." No, really Dottie, this is getting annoying and I have to keep moving because the neighbours think I'm a criminal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. i.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> heyaaa! So, I was reading these (http://toxixpumpkin.tumblr.com/post/108022477839/ridiculous-sentence-prompts) amazing Ridiculous Sentence Prompts when I stumbled over this particular one and immediately thought of Dottie. I only have like two parts of this written out so idk how fast I'm going to post it all, and I'm kind nervous to see where I'm going to go with it (because my planning skills are horrendous).  
> Anyway, the title is actually taken from a Rizzoli and Isles episode but it amuses me endlessly and it just fits so well.  
> As far as warnings and stuff, all I can say is I'm a one girl ship so all mistakes are entirely mine, and as far as I know there aren't really any triggers in this but if you spot any alert me so i can tag them or something. See 'ya later, alligator! (yes, i am a 40 year old dad from the 90's)

The first time it happens, it's a spy you've been tracking for two months.

Ever since Leviathan, the SSR could afford no loose ends, so all unsolved leads had been brought back. That meant a lot of nights spent at the office, pouring over case files and trying to find anyone who had slipped through the cracks. Vladimir Balashov is one of many russian spies that may have had possible ties to Leviathan, and Thompson's been on your ass all month, barking orders like a child eating chocolate for the first time (it's funny, really, how much he reminds you of a teenager trying on his father's suit jacket, shoulders not quite filling it in, chest drowning in fabric) . You love every minute of it,though. It's far from your days with Phillips and the Commandoes, but it's also far from filing meaningless paperwork ( the day you were assigned this case you swore _never_ to take a lunch order again).

And you're so close to nailing Balashov, you can feel it. He's been lurking around the SSR for quite some time now, his name popping up here and there. Still, the only connections you've made between him and Leviathan are insignificant at best, and certainly not enough to make him a priority. But you'll be damned if you let your first real case become a failure, so you're more than determined to drag him out of whatever snake hole he had managed to hide into.

You're hunched over your desk, pen in mouth and eyes starting to drift shut when Sousa taps you lightly on the shoulder.

"Hey Carter, you plannin' to catch the guy before or after your beauty sleep?"

"Very funny, Daniel ", you look around the office and notice it's mostly empty, only a few lights still on."I'm afraid I'll have to skip my beauty sleep tonight, I've a mister Vladimir waiting for me somewhere. I just have to figure out _where_." There's an ease between the two of you, and you're grateful for this brief distraction.

"Come on Peggy, you've been working on this guy for two months, you can spare one day. Hell, even Thompson's gone home for the day."

" _Exactly_! I've been on his trail for _two_ months, and I've gotten no closer to finding him", you sigh.

Daniel's sweet,really, for looking after you. But the last thing you can afford right now is to waste another day. Not with Thompson breathing down your neck and Howard tugging at your sleeve like a hyperactive child, spouting out fantasies of starting his own organisation (and the thought of an SSR run by _Howard Stark_ is both endlessly amusing and horrifying at the same time). But nonetheless, you're too tired to put up much of a fight and in no condition to make any real progress on the case, so when Daniel offers up your coat you take it with a nod of gratitude, and silently walk out into the cool night.

The sun has long since gone down, but you decide to walk home anyway, enjoying the view of the city bathed in moonlight. The sound of car engines is soothing, the quick tapping of shoes as people walk all around you a pleasant harmony.

(a quiet field meant _casualties_ , it has only ever meant death to you)

Soon, you reach your apartment building. It's close to the office, and far away from the Griffith and the hellbeast that was Mrs. Miriam Fry. You don't have a curfew, and if Mrs. Smith from 2D gives you a funny look whenever you walk into your apartment in the early hours of the morning, well, you don't loose sleep over it.

Howard is still dramatically heartbroken over your refusal to occupy his mansion any longer ( _"The one time I do something nice for '_ ya _!"_ ), but being surrounded by all that empty space somehow felt more suffocating than this tiny apartment. Without Angie's voice to fill the rooms, the quietness was just too overwhelming to take.

It wasn't long after she got her big break in the form of a supporting role in one of her beloved pictures that Angie left New York for sunny California, not before nights drunk off of cheap champagne and schnapps, practicing award speeches and television interviews.

("Imagine my silly mug on one of those giant screens, English! _That'd be_ somethin'...", she had said)("It would. _I'd pay the world to see it._ ", you had wanted to say)

You open the door, fumbling with the keys for a bit as you do you, and instantly feel that something is terribly off. You swiftly turn on the light switch and the air in the room is too cold, too fresh for an apartment you haven't been in since you left for work in the morning (ever since an evil, stray cat, now somewhat affectionately named Scratch had wandered in through a window and refused to extract itself from your home you've made it a task to always close every window before you left the apartment).

You quietly close the door behind you with one hand, the other reaching for the gun in your purse. In one move you begin searching the living room, gun held tightly in front of you. And, as you slowly move on from the living room, right hand pushing the kitchen door open, you see the small puddle of blood before you fully take in the body lying on your kitchen floor. In a beat you recognise the face staring up at you, the same one you've been obsessing over for these past two months: _Vladimir Balashov_.

_Dead on your **bloody** kitchen tiles. _

Once you've cleared the rest of the house you slowly return to assess the body. Slit throat. Small wound, probably a pocket knife. Not enough blood for him to have been killed here.

( **Not. Good.)**

You're reaching for the telephone to call the office when you notice Scratch curiously inspecting his clenched fist. You quickly move the cat to the bedroom and return, crouching down to take a closer look. With a handkerchief you carefully and as delicately as possible pry open his hand, only for a small golden tube to fall out of it.

_Your brand._

By the following night all the locks have been changed and the windows screwed shut. You don't sleep for four days anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There 'ya go, folks! Pheew, now that the first one's outta the way, we've got Lord knows how many more to go!  
> What did you think, though, real talk? Please let me know if I made any mistakes and remember that comments actually make me super duper happy!


	2. ii

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which Dottie's still a murderous ass, and Peggy is really god damn tired of all this shit but boy does she have a shitty way of handling it

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh my god i knooow, i've just completely neglected this story! It's actually pretty funny, bc i basically got stuck writing the third chapter and I completely forgot I had actually finished the second chapter so I never though to update.. But after FINALLY watching AoU and getting struck by major Peggy feels (still upset about natasha tho) I went through this story again and tried to put together a presentable second chapter. Also, I just now noticed I wrote "you do you" in the first chapter which was a typo but it made me laugh so i left it in there (i did however edit the tag that said 'live' instead of 'leave' bc hOW DARE I). Anyway, I hope this little thingy live up to the other little thingy! I still don't know where I'm going with this, and writing actual human thoughts and emotions is really weird and tricky and scary, so my Peggy could be a bit OOC.  
> Also, the writing's kinda jumbled in this one and I really wanted to show Peggy being really affected by Dottie and having all sorts of confusing feelings bc on one hand yaay look it's a kick ass woman how cool but on the other hand wHOA IS THIS LADY A FREAK, BUT ALSO I WANNA HELP HER MAYBE????

It happens again three months later.

You've finally managed to get a full night's sleep, and the apartment has started to feel safe once again.

_And then you find a dead mobster in your bathtub._

_(you honestly consider blaming the damned cat for all of your fat luck)_

While you filed the first incident away as a twisted attempt to intimidate you, this one makes no sense whatsoever. The man isn't even on the SSR's list right now, and you only faintly remember his face from some case you filed the paperwork for some odd years ago. There's no known link between him and Leviathan, either. Furthermore, he wasn't killed using the same method as Balashov. There are signs of struggle on his hands, his face beaten to a pulp. In fact, the man had probably  been beaten to death.

"He killed five women, you know."

You sharply turn around, gun held tightly in your hand, finger itching to put a bullet through her skull. In response, she raises both her hands and eyebrow, blood red smirk taunting you.

"Why are you here?", your shoulders are tensed, every nerve in your body on edge.

"I brought you a present, Peg!" her eyes turn briefly to the heavy man currently occupying your bath tub.

" _Don't call me that_. Have you come to finish your mission, then?"

"Just thought you might appreciate having one less problem to worry about. Us girls really oughta have each other's backs in this world, you know.", her smile turns wicked now,  pride flashing in her eyes.

"I'm not playing this game with you. **Tell me.** " and it would be so easy to just shoot her right on the spot, put an end to this twisted game of cat and mouse. But there are more like her out there. More weapons ready to be put to use. And you need all the information you can wrestle out of her.

"No." her face turns blank now, any trace of a smile gone in favour of stony determination.

"Talk or I will not hesitate to shoot. And I've a feeling you won't be able to walk this one off." Now it's your turn to smile, desperately trying to keep the upper hand despite the dreadful wave of panic rising in your stomach.

"I'm not here to kill you, _Agent_ , if that's what you're itching to know."

"Then tell me why you're here. Wait, allow me a guess. You want safety in exchange for information. That's what you're going to ask for, isn't it? And the bodies are a sign of, what, good faith, I presume? To show you're willing to work on our side now."

 You're slipping, and quickly so.

 You feel like a little girl in front of this killing machine dressed in silk, and she's enjoying every minute of it. Because this is really just one giant pissing contest that you hadn't even signed up for, and she's winning nonetheless.

She's a rock, and you're one breath away from breaking, your ribcage collapsing under all this dreadful panic. You bite the inside of your cheeks and curse the day you ever laid eyes on this, this _thing_ made of pure horror and magnificence and everything you had wished to be, everything you had fought to be.

(she was wrong, she never should have wished to be like you. you're _small_ and _scared_ , and the collar of the uniform shirt is scratching at your throat, terrible rashes going down your chest)

"Put the gun down, Peggy." she laughs, like you're just the _silliest goose_ and this is just an endlessly amusing game you're playing." We both know you won't shoot me, and I'm too fast, anyway." her grin is the only thing she leaves you with.

And the dead man in your bathroom.

( _she's wrong_. you'd shoot her without a second thought, if your hands worked properly and your vision wasn't blurring)

(but she's right, too. you'd only be splintering the wooden door behind her)

She moves fast and gracefully, opening a window and slipping one leg out, while you simply watch her, urging your body to do something, to stop her from escaping _again_.

"For the record, I didn't come here on a mission." she sighs, blue eyes peering at you from under long lashes, like steel wrapped in spider webs. _"See 'ya later, Pegs."_

You look on helplessly as she blows you a kiss and disappears, wind blowing through her now much straighter, blonde hair. You shoot the window frame and hear the glass shatter into a million pieces.

Thompson finds you curled on the floor, shaking. You don't remember calling the office, the sound of heels clicking against the fire escape steps still ringing in your ears. There's a crowd out in the hall already, and you catch Mrs. Smith's gaze as you're being carried out of the apartment. Maybe she pities you.

But that only lasts until they pull yet another body out of your apartment.

She's there, too, just around the corner, just out of sight. You feel her moving with you like a shadow, graceful in a way you had never managed to be.

_("Christ, Carter, you're supposed to be sneaking up on 'em, not trampling over there like a goddamned herd.")_

_(except no one cared how you ran when you only had thirty seconds until a blast, as long as you made it out alive, so Phillips'  words had never resonated)  
_

_(except you had been trained to fight big men in heavy uniforms and hard helmets, not bloody ballerinas in skin-tight pantsuits)_

Whatever she's trying to do, it's working and it makes you want to scream. But you have not made it this far only to let some russian psychopath get into your mind with her little games. You have fought enemies bigger and stronger and more insane than her. So you bite your fists until they stop shaking and remind yourself that Margaret Carter was decisively not raised to be defeated so easily by anyone.

(except, of course, you were raised to do just that by your mother, to surrender to the will of any man who walked into your life,

but you were definitely _not_ trained this way)

So you spend days punching things until you can't move your arms any longer, and you go to sleep with throbbing knuckles and tear filled eyes. Sometimes you drink yourself into a stupor and imagine you're still out on the battlefield, and your tears feel like harsh rain falling down your cheeks. And in the morning you wake up and you know she's there, watching your every move.

It occurs to you one night that she doesn't actually mean to kill you. That night, you fill the bathtub with cold water and fall asleep shivering.

You'd hoped you would dream of him, but all you get is numb fingers and purple lips. When you wake up there's a warm towel folded neatly under your head, and you don't remember whether you scream or laugh first, but at some point you're aware of doing both at the same time.     

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wohooo, that's over and done with!  
> Now, let's talk business: someone more talented than me NEEDS to make a fic of Steve joining Thor and Tony's bragging contest and blowing them away with the sheer awesomeness of Peggy Mother Effing Carter! I need a lot of "AND DID YOU KNOW THAT PEGGY ALSO DID THIS AND SHE TAUGHT ME HOW TO DO THIS WITH JUST ONE ARM AND SHE BASICALLY INVENTED THIS-" and my heart needs Peggy lifting Mjolnir fics more than it needs air pls thank you. If these gems are already out there point me to them and I'll grant you three wishes or smth~~


	3. iii.

_Things have changed._

That is the only way to summarize the complete cluster fuck that your life has been for the past year.

After defeating Whitney Frost, after catching Dottie Underwood only to break her out of prison yourself and then losing her, after taking a step forward with Daniel, only to break his heart all over again a moment later, after saving the world and , in the process, making a mess of your own life, you are left to pick up the pieces.

There’s L.A, and the pain and misery you've caused to the most wonderful couple you've had the privilege of meeting, and the heartbreak of a good man who had given up a chance at a happy life in hopes of catching your heart.

There is loss in L.A, and deep down you know it's all your fault.

You've saved the world yet again, but the people around you have been put through hell for it. The thought pops into your head that maybe Mr. Jarvis was right after all. It's not Whitney Frost and her atomic bomb that are dangerous. Maybe it's not the Zero Matter that leaves darkness everywhere it goes, that consumes anyone it touches.

Maybe it's _you._

Maybe the poison, the danger, maybe it's all you.

L.A has ruined you as much as you've ruined it.

So you crawl back to New York, to its filthy streets and alleys chock-full of people ready to kill you for a dime. But New York doesn't let you forget either. In New York there is Angie, who's beautiful and brilliant and deserves better than to have met you because you're certain at some point you will ruin her life, too. There is Jack Thompson lying in a hospital bed with a hole in his chest, and an empty office.

( for one fleeting moment you'd selfishly thought that perhaps you would be the one to fill in for him, but it's never going to be **you** , is it ?)

New York welcomes you with harsh rain and the smell of piss on the sidewalk, but that's what you deserve.

It's late in the evening, and you're deep in some case files, the idea of sleep far from your head (not when the only thing you see when you close your eyes is darkness, bleeding through your core and eating away at your insides, like cancer spreading everywhere). You don't notice it at first, until a loud thumping on the door pulls you from your thoughts.

Someone is knocking on your door, or was, at least, before giving one last try and leaving. Nevertheless, you make your way to the door, slipping your gun in the pocket of your robe as a precaution.

It's _her_. Of course it's her. **You should have fucking guessed it would be her.**

You'd recognise her anywhere. Even in her current state, you can't mistake the deep blue of her eyes, hungry waves waiting to swallow whole cities.

She's slumped against the door, and the odd angle at which her arm is set in her lap betrays more injuries than she appears to have. The left side of her face bears a long cut across the cheek, as well as a myriad of bruises. She's covered in mud and blood from head to toe, and looking at you like you're her life line, like she wants to kill you for needing your help. But most of all, she looks small, and so bloody _young_. You imagine a small girl with braids in her hair and freckled nose handcuffed to her bed for the first time, scared and helpless.

It's easy to forget how deadly she is, how quickly she could snap your neck.

" _Hey Peg!_ Long time, no see."

You pull out the pistol in your robe and point it straight at her head, unwilling to risk being deceived by the cunning snake again.

"Well, you look dreadful."

" _Thanks_ , you really know how to make a girl feel special!" her chest is heaving, almost ready to cave under the pressure of what look like several broken or bruised ribs. After several moments of staring the woman up and down, she's the one who breaks the silence, and drags your mind back to the matter at hand.

"So, are you gonna let me in or...?"

"How rude of me! By all means, make yourself at home. _We’ve so much catching up to do_.”

 The glare she throws your way looks powerful enough to cut through ice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ze eeeend! see ya next year! jUUuust KiddiNg! I know i've been gone for so long, but I will seriously try to write the next chapter as soon as possible, bc I know I for one am going through carterwood withdrawal and it sucks checking ao3 errday and coming up empty! I feel ya, buddies, and I'm gonna try to work harder for you! Hope this lil nugget is okay for now.


	4. iv

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which Peggy is damn tired of all this buffoonery and Dottie is maybe starting to get ~~deep~~ (who knows tho with that fucken dork)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "This looks like absolution,  
> which means first it must’ve looked like sin."
> 
> — A STUDY IN RESTORATION - a. davida jane

 

In the end, you are left with this: a battered Russian spy ( _the bane of your existence_ ) snoring softly on your living room couch.

Every minute trickling by reminds you of the complete fucking irony of this situation. And as the sun begins its slow rise, light filling up the room, you grow restless in your watch over Dottie. So you do the only reasonable thing. You start flicking water at her face until she begins to stir.

" _What are you doing?_ " for a minute you deeply regret waking her up, as you're certain this is the first time she'd gotten more than two hours of sleep in a long time.

"Good morning, _sunshine_! It's time we had that chat I promised you...And your bandages need to be changed, you're _leaking_ all over my couch." the anger and embarrassment flaring in her eyes almost makes up for the lack of sleep you've gotten.

Her eyes remain trained on you as you gather more supplies from the bathroom in order to clean up the myriad of injuries she'd managed to acquire. However, as soon as you disappear into the bathroom, a series of groans quickly pull you back into the living room. If she wasn't covered in bloody bandages and bruises, her weak attempts to get herself into a sitting position would amuse you.

"What exactly are you trying to do? Aside from ripping the stitches I spent hours working on."

" _Sorry_ , Peg, but I'm gonna have to take a rain check on our girl talk. I'll be in touch, though." she's somehow managed to lift herself, in the process making her whole body tremble in pain.

"As much as it pains me to make you stay, I doubt you could make it to the coffee table without collapsing, Dottie."

You don't let her continue to struggle to stand up, quickly and effortlessly shoving her back onto the sofa in order to clean her wounds and change her dressings.

(however, you do take _immense_ pleasure in the hiss of pain that comes out of her)

"Now, let's talk, _shall we_? Because I for one have a million questions for you."

" _Shoot_."

"Alright, let's begin with where you've been all this time."

"Oh, _you know_ , here and there. I'm not really a settling kind of gal." disappointingly, her smile is as brilliant as always, even when tinged with pain.

"Can't imagine you've been up to any good."

"What gave me away?"

You lift up a bloodied strip of gauze in response, as her face breaks into a grin.

"What happened to you, Dottie? I threw you out of a _window,_ and you looked better than you do now."

"That _was_ fun, wasn't it? _The good old days_..."

" _That's not an answer._ "

Her expression turns somber, eyes drifting away, to stare off into empty space.

"Let's just say I bumped into some old friends."

You don't need to look at her for confirmation. This is bad fucking news.

"Should I gather more guns?"

"We're still alive, so I suppose we're safe for now."

" _Shit_. Dottie, I can't believe you've dragged me into this mess!"

"Sorry Peg, I didn't know where else to go"

"How about a bloody hospital?!"

"And let some idiot screw up a simple stitch? I'd rather you kill me in my sleep than die of an infection."

"This is not a joke, Dottie. What happens when your little assassin friends barge in here? Because if someone with the same level of training can't take them, I fail to see how _I_ stand a change!"

" _Relax, Peggy._ If they wanted me dead, I would not be here right now, would I?"

"What did they want, then, if not your head?"

" _That's none of your business._ "

You expect her to follow up with a joke or another one of her lewd comments, but the severity of her tone unnerves you. And then it hits you.

" _They_ didn't want anything, did they?" she frowns as you finish dressing the last of her wounds.

" _You_ wanted something from them, and they sent you away. I'm right, aren't I?" her lack of a response is all the confirmation you need. A tinge of smugness washes over you, as you've finally managed to gain the upper hand in this twisted game between the two of you.

"What is it you want, Dottie?" she finally looks you in the eyes. And it's the defeat in them that wipes the smirk off your face.

"I wanted to go home."

"But I saw it... what they did to you. What they do to those little girls. Why would you want to go back to them?"

"What else am I supposed to do, Peggy? Stay _here_ , rot in a cell? Or what, you'll get me to join your little team of crime fighters and we'll catch robbers and save cats out of trees together? Girls like me don't get to do that, Peg."

"What is that supposed to mean?" you sigh in frustration.

"We're guns. We make the kill, and then we move on to the next target. That's what girls like me are raised to be. We don't ask questions. And this delusional redemption trip you seem so fixated on embarking me upon is _just_ that, nothing more."

"That is _absolute_ bollocks! I can't believe you'd let them turn you into their puppet again."

"The thing is, you have strings too, Peggy, you're just too blind to see them."

" _Right._ "

A strange tension fills up the room, slowly suffocating you. Your nerves are bursting with anger and frustration, which scares you more than you'd like to admit. You can't for the life of you figure out why this woman has such an effect on you. She's tried to kill you more than once, and she's done nothing but terrorise you from the moment she grabbed you in that bloody hallway. Seeing her defeated and so lost should make you happy, but instead all you feel is this wretched anger. How could this hellbeast of a woman, this _devil_ in heels and pretty blond curls have crawled her way so deep under your skin, that you can't seem to let go of her. _Because that's it, isn't it?_ The fright, the anger, it all boils down to this. _You can't let her go_. No matter what fucked up thing she does to toy with you next, your twisted mind still craves more. And the thought of her surrendering so easily makes your blood boil.  You've grown to know the evil bitch who leaves bodies on your doorstep and offered to kill Thompson for you like she was offering dessert and not murder. But _this_ , this sad girl in front of you is out of your depth. 

You can deal with dead bodies and painful bruises, but you've no idea how to deal with lost  Russian girls with a penchant for murder. 

"Why do you care what happens to me, agent? I thought you'd be glad to have me out of your hair." 

"Yes, well, you've become part of my schedule. You know, Thanksgiving, Easter, Christmas, _dead body at my door_ , it made for a nice routine." she chuckles at that, and the layers she's buried deep under slowly begin to peel away.

"You can go to sleep Peggy. I promise I won't try to strangle you."

"Shame, you've blown the excitement away. How could I _possibly_ fall asleep now?"

You don't talk after that, as you retreat into your bedroom. As you fall asleep, going over the strange day you've had, and the even stranger conversation with Dottie, you try to gather your thoughts. However, they all muddle together in a mix of frustration and guilt, and you end up falling into a restless sleep. You wake up several hours later, expecting to find an empty couch, with some sort of morbid  goodbye note on your nightstand or smeared on your bathroom mirror in red lipstick. Instead, you are surprised by the sight of a familiar black head of hair peeking out from inside your refrigerator. Clutching her side, you watch her pull out a bottle of milk, before filling up a bowl. Before she has the chance to, you grab the bowl and place it on the floor, where Scratch has been anxiously waiting for his meal.

"Morning, Peg! Well, _good evening_ , actually."

It's bizarre. All of this, the ease of it. Like it's just any other day. Like you weren't mortal enemies just months ago, like her blood isn't still smeared on your doorstep. Like you're just two old friends gossiping over coffee. It makes your head spin, and your fingers twitch. It drives you to the cupboard above the sink, and the bottle of whiskey hidden deep within it.

A shot to calm the nerves.

Except without a glass, a shot turns to chugging, and there are tears burning your eyes, and whiskey spilling all over your night gown. Dottie turns stiff next to you, caught off guard. You can see the wheels turning in her head, trying to make sense of your erratic behaviour. It only serves to send you spinning again, so you do the only thing you can think of to make her stop. You grab her by the back of her head, and kiss her. You bring your other hand to bury your nails into her bruised cheekbones, swallowing her hisses of pain. You press every bandage just enough to get a hiss or a groan out of her, just enough to ache. In response, she tugs at every inch of you with blood under her fingernails. You're both clawing at each other, trying to bring your bodies closer, until the space between you evaporates and you melt into each other.

It's the wrong picture, you are supposed to shoot her, stab her, _be the good guy_. The good agent.

_Bring the fucking justice._

Justice can go fuck itself.

She might drive a knife through your chest as soon as you break apart, but the lack of oxygen is making you dizzy and she tastes like everything your mother taught you was sinful when you were young. You feel her stitches beneath your fingertips and it makes you think that maybe you're both ripped at the edges, like together you'd make a whole person. But for now, you're former enemies who give each other bruises instead of kisses goodbye and flirt even as you're trying to kill one another.

Maybe you're supposed to get tangled in each other's strings. It doesn't make you feel any better, but at least it's something.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sooo, can i start off by saying that I spent an hour editing the last chapter bc I FUCKIN FORGOT I HAD ACTUALLY POSTED IT LIKE WHAT THE HELL ARE U DOING IULIA GET IT TOGETHER  
> anywhoo, just wanted to apologise because I wrote this very late at night and it is a jumbled mess, but then again so is Peggy's life (my smol disaster child)
> 
> i keep thinking of that scene where Dottie calls Peggy naive and it makes me crave dark!Peggy sooo bad. I mean, can you imagine Peggy going rogue after realising how deeply corrupt the SSR is? And I don't mean rogue as in "going behind my boss' back", I mean Peggy maybe kinda losing it (~~like, clinically~~) and letting go of her moral compass bc she's just so damn tired of trying to be the good guy and constantly being torn to pieces for doing the ~~right~~ thing. I also want an initially ecstatic Dottie (bc The Fun/Murderous Adventures of Dottie and Peg™) who starts getting progressively worried about Peggy because she's going down a really dark path and Dottie kinda wants to bring back the boring old Peg ( *her* Peg) because even though she was super anNOYING, her inherent goodness made her who she was BASICALLY I WANT A LOT OF ANGST OK.  
> (also yes i am ignoring the fact that the show got cancelled bc i am still in denial thank you very much)


	5. v.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which things happen i guess ??? i dont know if i like it but i thought i'd post it just because there are like no more new dottie fics aND THAT IS A DAMN SHAME

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "For all the universes there are,   
> this one was not enough,   
> not for now, not for us.
> 
> Somewhere in another, though.   
> We are softer, we are kinder.   
> To our skin, to each other."
> 
> \- IN THAT THERE THAT ISN’T HERE, I ALLOW MYSELF TO LOVE YOU | P.D

You’ve seen a lot of things in the span of your life.

You’ve seen _tragedy_. And _hurt_.

You know what shade the earth turns as it mixes with blood. All the hues of violet a bruise can have and the way the world looks through eyes swollen shut.

There are things you have seen that you’d wish on no other soul. They keep you up at night and make your heart beat faster when you close your eyes in the shower. These things, you will have to carry with you forever. But among them, tangled in a complicated web of memories, are good things, too.

_Beautiful things._

The way someone laughs after they’ve narrowly escaped death on the battlefield. The flush in someone’s cheeks after a few drinks.

The light in _his_ eyes after a mission successfully completed.

The smell of peach schnapps and rhubarb pie.

This morning you are greeted by such a sight. There is light peeking through the dark curtains, and it falls in such a way, you’d swear the sun has risen just to illuminate her face. She’s sleeping, and you can’t help but stare. Because Dottie is nothing if not absolutely _breathtaking._

And if it wouldn’t mean waking her, you’d reach a hand and touch her cheek, the delicate skin covered in freckles. But you don’t dare to wake her up, for fear of having her slip away. As she sleeps, you see her completely different.

Peaceful. _Softer._

Even as the light catches a particularly nasty bruise on her cheekbone, the woman is still utterly magnificent. Under your hand, the skin on her hips feels like satin. Like your hand has been itching to hold onto it your whole life.

You know that as soon as you get up from that bed, everything could, and most likely _will_ , go a million ways wrong. You know this is probably the most selfish, stupid thing you could have ever done. You know that in the evening you will scrub your entire body raw, as the guilt and anger set in.

Because you didn’t _think_.

Because your _stupid_ , _wretched_ hands found her skin before they found a knife, a bottle, a doorknob, _anything_ else besides this skin made of poison.

“Whatcha thinkin’ about?”

There it is. The moment before the sky falls and reality sinks in.

Dottie is looking at you through drowsy eyes, as if what you’ve done doesn’t make you a _traitor_.

“How are you feeling?”

“Well, I’m a little sore, _Doc_ , but I’m certain I’ll manage.” she smirks and it sends shivers down your spine, and maybe you understand why so many have fallen into her traps.

“ _Good_. That’s, _um_ , -it’s great, that means you’re recovering fast.”

You get up quickly, blood rushing to your head. The movement makes your head spin, and you fumble with the strings on your robe as you try to cover yourself.

Dottie sighs, and attempts to stretch her arms over her head, before wincing in pain, and throwing her arms back to her sides.

“I guess…”

“Look, Dottie, I don’t know what plan you have, but –“

“ _Relax_ , Peg. I’m not some school girl after prom night, I don’t want to go steady with you.” Dottie laughs, but this time it makes your stomach twist uncomfortably.

“That’s not what I was going to say.”

“But you _were_ thinking about it. You furrow your eyebrows when you’re worried about something.”

“Thank you, _detective_ , that’s very insightful. What I meant to say is, I don’t know what your plan is, but you _definitely_ cannot stay here.”

“ _Ouch_ , Peggy. Is that how you treat every girl you bed?” this makes all of the blood rush to your cheeks, as you watch her grin wickedly.

“I want you out of my house by _tonight_ , Dottie. This is my home, and I will _not_ have you make a target out of it.”

“I can barely move. If you kick me out, you’re hanging me to out to dry.” she says through gritted teeth. Having to admit defeat, having to admit being too weak to protect herself brings her more pain than the wounds themselves, if her face is any indication.

“Because we’re _such_ good friends, all of the sudden?! You tried to **kill** me. **_Repeatedly_**. I don’t own you anything.”

She nods slowly, determination growing in her blue eyes. In one swift movement, she is sitting upright, and fetching her clothes from the floor. You watch her back stiffen in pain, and you’re certain she is one step from collapsing. Before she tries to stand up, you are in front of her, hand gently pushing her back onto the bed.

“Stop, before you rip out your stitches.” you sigh. Her eyes are tightly closed, and there are beads of sweat already forming on her temple.

She doesn’t say anything, nor does she open her eyes, but she lets you guide her back to bed without a fight.

“How do you manage to do this _every single time_?”

“Do _what_?” she finally opens her eyes, gazing curiously up at you.

You feel like this is the first time you see her as she truly is, and not some character she’s expertly crafted.

“Make me do exactly what you want. Make me go against _everything_ I should stand for.”

She is silent for the longest time, and you expect a joke, or a clever remark with a dirty double-meaning, but not complete and utter sincerity.

“ _I don’t know._ ” she looks down, where her hands are lying in her lap. You watch her as she traces the scars on her left wrist, wondering just when you managed to break down her walls enough to see the real Dottie shining through the cracks. You tie the robe tighter against your body, and sit down next to her, looking anywhere else but at Dottie.

“No matter how many times you try to fuck me over, I still can’t let you go. How pathetic is that?”

It does strike you as amusing that the longest relationship you’ve had is with a mentally deranged assassin you were supposed to capture a long time ago.

“They wanted me to kill you.”

 _“What?”_ you turn towards her now, and watch as she frowns, trying to make sense of what exactly it is she is feeling right now.

“When I went back. They said they’d take me back once I finished my mission.”

“And you refused?” she nods, staring off into empty space.

“I guess that makes us both pathetic.”

“ _Yeah_.”

She is still absent-mindedly rubbing her wrist, when you take her right hand, clasping it with your own. You sit in silence for what feels like hours, holding hands, your breathing falling into step with hers.

You imagine that you’re different people.

That there is a world in which you two are meant to be together. Are meant to contemplate in silence together for the rest of your lives.

You close your eyes and imagine Dottie _dancing_. _Laughing_ at some joke you’ve just said. _Blushing_ as you place a flower behind her ear.

You imagine two people who _aren’t_ you.

Two people who have not seen what you two have seen. People who don’t know what broken bones feel like, don’t see _red_ every time they close their eyes.

Those people could fall in love. Those people are holding hands as they walk through parks on sunny afternoons, not as they’re suffocating under the pressure of being who they are.

_But you are not those people._

Your kind, the ones cut from the same cloth as you and her, don’t get to have any of that. Your kind is a _wretched_ kind. Your kind has gone through hell and come back in pieces. You realise as you feel the warmth of Dottie’s body next to you that maybe you are in your current predicament because you were meant to fill the spaces the other one was missing.

Maybe there is some meaning to this mess between the two of you.

In all the books you’ve read when you were younger, moments like these were supposed to mean _something_. The flutter of Dottie’s eyelashes meant _lust_ , the steadiness of your hand against hers meant _trust_ , the way her tongue felt caressing your lips meant _hunger_. But now, in the coldness of your bedroom, the way her lips part slightly as she breathes means **sin** , the curve of her hips as your fingers trace her skin means **penance** , the shivers that run down your body as she whispers your name against your neck means **punishment**.

Finally, she breaks the silence, effortlessly cutting through the heavy atmosphere in the room.

“I don’t know about you, Peg, but I’m _starving_!” and just like that, all of the hidden parts of herself that she has shown you today are tightly held back, the bubbly, doe-eyed façade falling back into place.

You break out of your absent stare, and turn to see her studying your face.

“The only thing I have is some canned soup, but I guess I could run out and get s-“

“ _That sounds great_! It doesn’t get more American than this, does it?” You laugh, rising from the bed and gathering up your clothes to get dressed. Before you step into the bathroom, you exchange one last glance.

The way she looks at you, the way your sheets wrap loosely around her body, the dip her body leaves in the mattress, it somehow feels… Well, you’re not quite sure what it feels like, but you reckon that whatever it is, you wouldn’t mind spending an eternity doing this.

This revelation weighs on you for the rest of the evening, and as you and Dottie eat in silence, you think of a million ways in which you could kill her.

Because that’s what you _should_ do.

She’s killed people and committed crimes anyone would be hanged over. She’s cold and manipulating, and wicked in so many ways.

_Except._

Except for the way she covers her hand self-consciously when someone looks at her scars. Except for the childish gleam in her eyes when you indulge in one of her dirty jokes. Except her eyes turn the colour of the cloudless sky and so _soft_ when she’s overcome with pleasure. Except for the way her jaw clenches and she blinks too quickly when someone mentions anything about her past.

You wish you hadn’t noticed these things.You wish there were no _"excepts"._ You wish you hadn’t seen the way her humanity overwhelms her, the tireless fight she puts up against her own nature, and how she feels things with such intensity she doesn’t know how to handle any of it.

Dottie Underwood is no monster.

She’s a cold-blooded murderer and a manipulator by design. But she is _not_ a monster.

You have stared the devil in the face, and its eyes don’t light up the way hers do. The depths of evil have _red bones and sharp claws_. You have fought pure evil and come out unscathed. You have lost many good men to the hands of evil.

But this woman is not evil.

 _Fire_ runs through her veins and when she smiles her teeth are _sharp_ and ready to tear you apart, but she’s not evil.

And despite all of it, you’re almost certain this time you’re done for.

That there is no way you’ll make it out alive this time.

Because loving Dottie means giving _him_ up. It means throwing away everything you once believed in, everything _he_ believed in. For a few blessed moments with her you have thrown away a life spent honoring _his_ legacy.

And from _that_ you can never come back.

You can be the good guy, or the bad guy. And good guys don’t get to do the things you’ve done. They don’t get to grip soft flesh and trace maps with their tongue along the edges of darkness.

( _Which means you must be the bad guy_.)

Which means you’ve fallen from grace, like an angel who has lost its wings. You’re not the least bit religious, but there’s a voice in the back of your head that sounds just like Sister Jude yelling **_sinnersinnersinnersinner_** over and over again, and you think that there must surely be a special place in Hell reserved just for you.

“ _You okay, Peg?_ ” Dottie looks at you with a hint of concern, and you realise that you must have been staring into empty space for some time now.

“Hmm, I’m fine.”

“What were you thinking about just now?”

“Do you believe in God?” you ask suddenly. The question must have taken her aback, judging by the way her eyes widen slightly and her brows furrow as she contemplates what to say in response. You don’t know where the question came from, nor do you expect her to answer it.

“What do you _mean_?” she says, after a while.

“Do you believe there’s someone watching over us? That everything that happens to us is caused by some deity?”

“And here I thought some _asshole_ gave me these bruises. Turns out, it was _God_ all along.”

Her attempt to lighten the atmosphere works, and you soon fall into a pleasant conversation, as she recalls the different injuries she had had the opportunity to inflict upon her assailants. Only after hours of talking do you realise how easy this all comes to the both of you, how quick you’ve fallen into a rhythm. As it gets darker outside, you retreat into the living room, where your conversation continues seamlessly. It’s past midnight when you become aware of Dottie’s increasing yawning, and the both of you decide to call it a night. Without saying anything, you help her move into the bedroom, and gently guide her to bed.

As you lay your body next to hers, she turns on one side, straining her aching muscles in the process. This is how you end up facing each other, not saying a word, just looking into each other’s eyes. As you begin to slowly drift off to sleep, she peers at you from under her eyelashes.

_“Thank you, Peg.”_

For the first time in months, you fall into a restful slumber.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i dont even know what this was, i just felt sad that the fandom is pretty much dead  
> but yo, i just wanna say that all of the support I've gotten for this has been so overwhelming, and i one hundred percent lose my shit every time someone leaves a comment or a kudo thingie and i never know how to thank u guys so i probably seem like an asshole but just kno that you make me extremely happy 
> 
> also @ElleDritch u are especially awesome and way too nice buddy i hope ur day is going swell


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